Picnic Tables
by parisoriginal
Summary: Submission for Faberry Week 2011: First Time. Fluffy clouds of Faberry cotton and marshmallows.


**A/N:** I found this again recently. I had submitted it for Faberry week in 2011. I'm glad I found it again because this is some major fluff and since when do I do that, right? Rare occasions demand attention! Anyway, enjoy this little drabble and don't expect more cuteness from me ever ;) [jk. kind of.]

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You chuckled. You chuckled, and you knew you probably shouldn't have, but you did. It wasn't a bad chuckle. It was an amused chuckle; and it wasn't like you were amused by her in specific. You were kind of laughing at yourself, for being so _dumb_. You were laughing at yourself for being so naive.

It's funny; you go through life, thinking that you're the best person ever born. You wear a mask because you don't want to share yourself with yet another set of people. You have to keep this calm, cool, and collect persona so that others don't think they've got one up on you. You think you get away with it, and you come home from another day of fighting off demons within four walls disguised as an institution, to then again prepare yourself to fight again within the four walls you call home. It's a never ending battle.

It's interesting; you think you've got it all figured out. You're on top. You're head cheerleader. You're beautiful. You're flippin' perfect. You've got your enemies close and you've got your subordinates far below you. And then you meet your match; and then it all comes crashing down, and you can't even help it.

It's intimidating; you try so hard to not let anyone near you. You try to set yourself apart and not get involved emotionally. Then one day, you get stuck in a corner and you can't move. She's trapped you there and she doesn't even know it. It's frustrating because she's just looking at you and you become water. Your emotions seep out and she sees you for who you truly are.

It's frightening; you want to run. You want to hide. You want to close your eyes and count to ten. You want to open your eyes to see her gone. You want to feel like you have control again. So when you're done having your moment with her, your walls climb back up, and you scold at yourself. Your eyebrows furrow and you glare into the mirror; you glare at yourself. You promise yourself it'll never happen again.

It fails; your facade just doesn't stand a chance, and yet you still try. You try again to push her around. You call her names. You say mean things. You draw horribly, yet accurate pictures of her on bathroom walls. You stare at her. But in the end, you soften. You just melt. She melts you.

It's unfair; why is she allowed to do that? You ask yourself every day. You end up thinking about her. You end up sighing. You end up …smiling. You end up happy? You end up confused? You want to be angry, but you don't have the strength anymore. You tell her you don't hate her. You tell her, indirectly, that you believe in her. You tell her to succeed. You end up wishing her well.

Everything you thought was what you wanted, isn't. It's that moment in your adolescence when you shake your head abruptly and see things from another perspective. You have an out of body experience. You see yourself and you see how you look at her. You see the spark in your eye. You see the faint smile on your face. You see that, perhaps, this is the first time you _feel_ something? Or maybe the first time you _let_ yourself feel something?

And then you are sitting next to her. You're sitting next to her atop the picnic table at a park. There are a few kids playing in the background. Their laughter is faint because it's being overpowered by the wind. You realize it's kind of chilly and you _accidentally_ move yourself closer to her. And as you do so, your hand covers hers.

It's initial shock, the removing of your hand from hers. It's not as if you want to make her feel like she has a deathly contagious disease; absolutely not. It's just shock. She looks down at her hand and then back up into your eyes and your mouth just hangs ajar. She smiles, and you're still trying to figure out what to say. Your eyes drop to the picnic table. She hasn't moved her hand from where it was. She follows your glare and then swiftly scoots closer to you. You hesitate, slightly, and finally, your hand drops down softly over hers. You feel your cheeks burn and you make an attempt to hide it by looking at the children play again, but she knows you better than that, though; _you_ know she knows better. So you chuckle.

It's funny; you think you know someone, in exterior, but you're blinded by your own rage and your own imperfections. You _think_ you know that she's 'repulsive' or any other horrible derogatory term. But in reality, you don't know anyone, because, "your hands aren't really that man-ish at all, are they?" You ask her softly, and very much rhetorically. And it's that beaming smile that has your cheeks burning again, and this time, hers as well.


End file.
